Page 23 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"My mother painted every day in this room," he said finally, his voice low and controlled. "She claimed the light was perfect here. That she could capture truth in her brushstrokes."

Elizabeth watched his face, seeing the muscle tick in his jaw. "And did she? Capture truth?"

His laugh held no humor. "She captured what she wanted others to see. The perfect countess, the devoted mother, the loving wife." His fingers traced the air above a painting of children playing in a sunlit garden. "We were all so blind."

"Tell me," Elizabeth said softly, drawn by the raw pain in his voice. "Help me understand."

Cecil's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn to face her. "Why are you really here, Elizabeth? What do you seek in these halls at night?"

She recognized the deflection but answered honestly. "Sometimes the house feels...too quiet. Too full of things unsaid." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of her thin nightclothes. "My mother used to walk at night too, when she couldn't sleep. Father's silences drove her to restlessness."

"Tell me about her," Cecil said, his voice gentler than she'd ever heard it.

Elizabeth hesitated, moving to stand by the window. For years, she'd guarded these memories, kept them locked away where they couldn't hurt her. "I'm not sure I can..."

"You can't sleep at night," Cecil observed quietly. "You wander these halls like a ghost. Why?"

She stared out at the moonlit gardens, gathering her courage. "Because sometimes I see her in my reflection. Not as she was at the end, but as I remember her from my childhood. Beautiful, graceful...hopeful." Her voice caught. "Before Father's disappointment crushed that hope from her."

"What happened?"

"She was gentle," Elizabeth said finally, her words barely above a whisper. "Afraid of her own shadow, really. The ton's disapproval of her common origins made her desperately eager to please. When she couldn't give Father the sons he wanted..." She touched her scar unconsciously. "She blamed herself for everything—for my mark, for bearing daughters, for not being what he wanted."

"And you blame yourself as well?" Cecil's question was careful, measured.

Elizabeth turned to face him, surprised by the understanding in his eyes. "How could I not? I was her firstborn—the one who should have been a son. Instead, I emerged marked, damaged. Father never let either of us forget it."

"What was she like?" Cecil pressed gently. "Before his disappointment wore her down?"

A sad smile touched Elizabeth's lips. "She used to sing while she worked on her embroidery. French lullabies her mother had taught her. Sometimes, late at night, I'd find her in the conservatory, dancing by herself to music only she could hear." She blinked back unexpected tears. "But after my birth, after this—" she gestured to her scar "—she stopped singing. Stopped dancing. Started apologizing for taking up space in her own home."

"And you?" Cecil finally turned to face her. "Do you blame her?"

Elizabeth was quiet for a long moment, considering. "No," she said finally. "I blame the world that turned a vibrant woman into a shadow of herself. That made her believe her only worth lay in giving her husband sons. That taught her to apologize for things beyond her control until she forgot how to do anything else." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Do you know what her last words to me were?"

When Cecil shook his head, she continued, "She said 'I'm sorry I couldn't be a better mother.' As if she hadn't given us everything she had, everything she was, until there was nothing left."

"Is that why you've never married before now?" Cecil's voice was careful, neutral.

"Partly," Elizabeth admitted. "But also because I saw what happened to the few men who expressed interest despite my scar. The way their mothers would pull them aside, whisper about the risks of damaged bloodlines." Her laugh held nohumor. "Eventually, it seemed easier to be the spinster aunt, to focus on giving Harriet the chances I never had."

Something shifted in Cecil's expression—a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "Is that why you fear motherhood? You think you'll share her fate?"

Elizabeth's breath caught. How had he seen through to her deepest fear so easily? "I saw what marriage and motherhood did to her," she admitted. "How it slowly extinguished her light until nothing remained but duty and regret. I won't—I can't become that."

"Elizabeth." The way he said her name made her shiver. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You seem confused by my actions lately."

"I am," she admitted, acutely aware of his proximity. "One moment you're distant, the next...you look at me as if..." She trailed off, unable to voice the desire she saw in his eyes.

"As if what?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "As if I want to devour you whole?"

Elizabeth's breath caught at his bold words. "Yes."

Cecil's smile was pure wickedness as he traced the air near her scar, not quite touching. "Perhaps because that's exactly what Iintend to do. Why else would I keep you on edge, wondering what I'll do next?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "A proper seduction requires...anticipation. The not knowing when I might touch you, where my hands might wander. It's all part of the game, my dear wife."

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